


Death of the Demon

by Lord_Martin_of_Fail_Mountain



Category: Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22591462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lord_Martin_of_Fail_Mountain/pseuds/Lord_Martin_of_Fail_Mountain
Summary: Gyoubu Oniwa speaks his final words after his fight with the shinobi.
Kudos: 31





	Death of the Demon

The land that gave Gyoubu Oniwa a purpose was cold in the winter, but soothingly warm in the summer and spring. It was blessed with cloudy skies and crisp air, with winds howling on cliffs turning to breezes that caressed the grass like whispered words of a good woman. Ashina was home now, truly, and it was worth fighting for.

And fight, Gyoubu had. It was his best skill – even if it was not the only thing he could do well, he would come back to this, over and over. Always brawling, then killing, then outright war.

He sighed, his vision shimmering as he looked at the sky though a shroud of tears. His eyes stinging, he blinked. 

What was once a field of greenery was now a downtrodden battlefield. What were once trees were now watchtowers. Instead of shrubs and leaves, torn and burnt banners fluttered in a breeze more cold than crisp, more biting than invigorating. Dark gray smoke mingled with once beautiful clouds.

“Genichiro,” Gyoubu whispered into the choking air. Maybe these winds would take his words to Ashina Castle. “Forgive me.”

He coughed, a spray of blood staining his lap. He reached up and adjusted his great antlered helmet, his forehead slick with sweat underneath. His left arm was lead, heavy, unmoving. His side stung, and he felt warm wetness there, even though he knew he would soon start shivering. A broken tree trunk pressed into his armored back, and when he moved, he could feel the wound in his neck pull. It was a deep stab, still bubbling blood. He did not have long, he knew, for he was barely feeling the pain now.

His mighty warhorse stomped and neighed beside him. An old companion, strong, loyal, he would not leave his side, despite his weak hand gesture. “Onikage. Get out of here.”

This field smelled of burning and death. Smells he knew too well – he knew the iron taste of blood better than the scent of flowers, and the stench of excrement and decay disgusted him less than he might have wanted. The truth is, his sense of smell was mostly gone anyway, his wide, reddened nose having been broken too many times perhaps. He could barely smell the soaked furs on his shoulders.

There was no sound but the popping of wood being devoured by fire. The trampling and snorting of Onikage. His own breathing, slow, in, and out. A tap on the ground beside him – the dripping of blood.

He did not hear the shinobi’s footsteps. The little man just slowly came into his view.

He really was a little man. Barely taller than Gyoubu sitting down. If Gyoubu was a demon, what was he? A tattered monster in rags, not much to look at. If it wasn’t for the stance, the way he moved, he could have been some peasant to hold up on the road.

Onikage stepped forward like the brave beast he was, and tossed his matted head. The shinobi stopped, his sword still in his hand. Where Gyoubu’s spear was, he did not know.

He tried to stand, but could barely scrape his back on the tree he was sitting against. He really couldn’t move his left hand. His right grasped at nothing in his lap.

“Do not hurt the beast,” he said to the shinobi. He saw the man look at him, scrutinising him with a scowl. A stubbled, weather-worn face, not just of a warrior, but someone without hope. And yet, there he stood, and here Gyoubu sat.

“I won’t,” the shinobi said. His voice was low, hoarse. Slowly, he stepped closer. Onikage nudged him with his muzzle, and Gyoubu tensed, but the man only held up a hand and pushed the animal away. The horse grumbled, worrying his hooves into the hard soil, but he let the shinobi approach. The little man loomed over Gyoubu, looking down, slightly as he could.

“What are you waiting for, shinobi?” Gyoubu half-coughed, meeting the steely gaze. He did not glance at the blade in the man’s hand – they were acquainted already. 

The shinobi spoke quietly. On the surface, it was a pathetic voice, whispery, with a strain that sounded like he could burst into tears. But his gaze did not waver, his hand never trembled as he held his weapon, and so there was strength to his words as well.

“Where does your master keep the Divine Heir?”

Gyoubu coughed and squirmed. He spat a thick glob of red phlegm to the side, his lips parched and stinging. He was beginning to feel cold, and that brought with it a tang of fear he did not expect. He regarded the shinobi with a grunt.

“Is that what you are looking for?”

The man nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“And why would I tell you? What purpose would that serve? Would it stop this bloodshed? This fucking war?”

“The war is not mine,” the shinobi said. 

“And yet your sword drips with Ashina’s blood all the same,” Gyoubu coughed. A few paces away, Onikage neighed at the sky, shaking his heavy armour.

“All I’m searching for is the Divine Heir,” the man said. “You tell me where he is held, and I won’t hurt any more men than necessary.”

Anger touched the inside of Gyoubu’s chest, and twisted. He knitted his brows at the little man in rags, growled at him, but, of course, he did not step back. Neither could Gyoubu move, only his heels scraped in the dirt. His breath heaved against the breastplate, his shoulders slumped. He could not move. He could barely lift his head, the helmet weighing it down.

The rage kept him, and he could speak without his voice breaking.

“Show some respect to a dying warrior, shinobi. Spare me the fucking lies. You’re out for revenge. And Lord Genichiro… will cut you down.”

The shinobi, to Gyoubu’s outrage, knelt in front of him. They looked at each other, locking eyes, two piercing crystals looking up at him. There was no expression on the shinobi’s face. Gyoubu could have grabbed him then, put a gauntleted hand on his neck and squeezed. He could have crippled the little man, heard his bones snap and pop. He could have ripped his head off and put it on a pike.

But he could barely lift his right hand from his lap, and his left was no longer his own.

“Where is he?” the shinobi asked.

“Where would he be? In the castle. You’ll find him. Or not. I don’t care.”

“You stood in my way,” the man said. Justifying himself, perhaps.

“Proudly,” Gyoubu said. “I would do it again.”

The shinobi then placed his bloodied blade’s tip on Gyoubu’s breast with a firm hand. Right above his heart. To the dying warrior’s surprise, though, the other man did not lean into it to stab through the armour. Instead, he felt a grip on his numb wrist. The man picked up Gyoubu’s meaty, heavy hand, and guided it to the sword’s hilt.

“Your lord forces my hand,” the shinobi rasped.

“Maybe,” Gyoubu said, his stinging eyes fixed on the blade. In his palm, it was barely longer than a knife, shorter than the blade of his mighty spear, but still death in steel form. It suited the shinobi well. “But you’re just a man. You’ll fall.”

“I will get back up again,” the man said, and Gyoubu knew he was right. He felt the shinobi’s grip tighten on his, pressing his palm onto the sword’s hilt, and he heard his words: “I won’t take your dignity. It is yours.”

“Then let go of my hand.”

The man did so. He stood and stepped back, offering a single glance to Onikage, who pawed the ground with his ears back, not taking his eyes off his master.

Gyoubu looked up at Ashina’s sky, one more time. Past the smoke, there were clouds. Where the birds flew, the choking smell did not reach. Up at the highest tower of Ashina Castle, the air would be clear, like Lord Genichiro’s mind.

He only hoped that as his life here had finally meant something to himself, his death would mean something to those he left behind. Those he failed. He only hoped his failure would be forgiven. He had given it his all.

His blurring vision found the shinobi again. He stood empty-handed, the wind tugging at his orange robes and scarf, his gaze turned to the same sky. Giving the dying man his privacy.

Gyoubu squeezed the sword’s hilt, his grip weak at first, then finding his last strength. The blade’s tip was lodged into his armour now, like a nail ready for the hammer.

He closed his eyes, the world floating away, pulsating into darkness. He did not hear his heartbeat, but he could feel it.

He sighed his last breath, and he plunged the blade down.


End file.
